


This Is How I Disappoint

by MortuaryBee



Series: The Only Hope For Me Is A High School AU [2]
Category: Bandom, Music RPF, My Chemical Romance, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Alternate Universe - Art School, Alternate Universe - High School, Emo, Gen, Marijuana, Other, Pre-Band, Pre-MCR, Recreational Drug Use, emo boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:15:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21869644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MortuaryBee/pseuds/MortuaryBee
Summary: The guys find out if Gerard got a music minor.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way, Frank Iero/Ray Toro, Ray Toro/Gerard Way
Series: The Only Hope For Me Is A High School AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1575889
Kudos: 10





	This Is How I Disappoint

Frank and Ray meet in the hall on the first floor after the bell for Advisory period, an essentially useless half hour situated in the middle of the day. Designed for meeting with teachers that were never there or scrambling to finish overdue assignments, the time was usually spent less constructively. Sneaking off is almost effortless now, having memorized teachers usual routes through sheer monotony and persistence. 

And yet, not two turns into their journey, Ray tugs Frank aside to duck out of view of a man with wispy hair, three piercings all in the same ear, and a solid colored button up under a patterned vest leisurely making his way towards the stairs to the theatre department. 

“Is that Depp?” Frank whispers.

Ray nods. “I think so.” 

“Dude, he’s on the wrong floor and stoned as shit.” Frank explains. “I don’t think he’ll give a fuck.”

Ray puts an arm out to keep Frank behind him until Mr. Depp is out of sight. “Yea but if he’s in a mood we’ll be fucked cause my Pepe Le Pew impression isn’t good enough for him to let me slide twice.”

Frank barely muffles his laughter at the image. Ray lets his arm drop as Frank pushes his way back onto their most direct path. “I heard a stoned George Bush Jr. works in a pinch.”

Ray does a better job at muffling his laughter but shoves Frank’s arm for causing it. “I’m even worse at that.”

Frank’s smile fades as he thinks about why they’re meeting Gerard. “Do you think he got it this time?” From what Ray’s told him this will be the visual artist’s third time trying out for a minor in guitar.

Ray sighs and shakes his head. “Probably not, but I hope so.”

Frank groans as they near the stairwell they haunt between classes worth going too. “This is gonna be a bitch isn’t it?”

Ray stops Frank in front of a broken emergency exit at the very back of the school perpetually propped open for smokers. Gone unreported due to administrative apathy and frequent faculty use, it’s become somewhat of a safe haven for delinquency. The cinderblock in between the doors looks older than either of them, slowly crumbling to dirt, and riddled with cracks. The musky scent of weed wafts its way into their noses. Frank starts to lean out the door but Ray redirects his attention.

“You gotta be cool alright? He works his ass off every fucking year man. Be cool.”

Frank throws his hands up and responds too loudly for anywhere else in the building. “Fine, fine. I’m good. Lay the fuck off.”

Some of the tension relaxes in Ray’s shoulders at Frank’s response but it reemerges immediately upon pushing the door to the stairwell open. The need for introductions long gone, they hear a familiar voice call out before they see who’s making it.

“This is the part where you’d say “next year” if that hadn’t been my last chance before graduation.” 

Gerard’s is slumped against the wall behind the stairs, head lolled to the side, chin jammed into his shoulder. A blanket of unkempt hair covers trails of dried tears and runny eyeliner. An acoustic guitar lay abandoned across his lap.

“Fuck that,” Frank interjects, “they don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“I mean they do though.” Gerard counters. “Teachers teach cause they know shit. That’s the whole point-” 

He cuts himself off to scrunch his hair in a fist and redirects his anger towards the carefully crafted wood and steel weighing on him. “It's just this stupid fucking-” He knocks the instrument to the ground. His yell drowns out the hollow clunk as it hits the floor. Gerard picks the guitar up by the neck and stands. “Screw this shit!” The noise bounces off the cramped walls and up into the stairwell above them. He raises it above his head, ready for destruction.

“Nope!” Ray admonishes as he grabs onto the guitar before Gerard can swing it.

He tugs at Ray’s hold but doesn't try hard enough to really tear free or damage anything. His volume lowers. “I can’t do it anymore.”

Frank shakes his head. “Dude NOT fucking worth it. You wouldn’t even get a full swing in here.” He jumps up to slap the underside of a step for emphasis.

“I don’t care.” Gerard’s voice cracks. Ray takes the guitar as the visual artist slumps back against the wall. “Why keep it if I can’t play?” Cinder blocks scraping against his head and dragging up the back of his shirt, he slowly slides back to the floor. Ray sits beside him.

“You can play. You just need more practice.” He offers the guitar to Gerard but won’t hand it over until he sees his eyes, holds his attention. “And fuck the department head.”

Frank turns to face them and chokes the air in front of him. “Elitist dillhole.”

“Try like,” Ray points above Franks head, “two feet higher. Might actually get his neck that way.”

“How ‘bout I get your neck,” Frank says.

Gerards lips quirk up as he takes the acoustic. He plucks a few strings as he answers. “I just don’t want this romance to end.” Ray taps the body of the guitar and slaps the dirty linoleum next to him like a makeshift drum set.

“So don't end it?” Frank nudges Gerard’s bicep with the toe of his boot in between paces of the small alcove. “You kinda play in our band, fuckhead.” Gerard flips him off and Frank kisses the air between them.

“You could write an instrumental?” Ray suggests.

Gerard shrugs, considering the possibility. “I have had some stuff stuck in my head.”

“And seriously fuck the department head,” reiterates Frank. “He’s got a Gibson so far up his ass he can’t even see the frets.”

Gerard laughs so hard he loses the notes, but the beat stays steady in Ray’s hand. When Gerard stops playing Ray and Frank improvise an extended fill complete with spit spattered cymbal noises.

Gerard jumps back in on the last note but grows serious in the resulting silence. “At least he’s nicer than Simmons.” He shakes his head, heavy on his shoulders. “I keep tryna tell Mikey he’s not fucking ready but he’s being a shit about it.”

“He’s a shit about everything,” reminds Frank.

Ray sighs. “Simmons is gonna eat him for lunch.”

“Ambush,” Suggests Frank.

“He’s probably gonna want to be alone,” guesses Gerard.

“Ambush!” Frank reiterates. “You can't leave that dude alone with that.”

“That's not fucking funny,” Gerard warns, eyes like daggers.

Frank scowls in return. “It’s not a fucking joke.”

“You can't push that shit.”

They turn to Ray who throw his palms in the air. “I don't fucking know man.” He shrugs. “Your brother your call.”

Gerard rolls his eyes and shakes it off. “Whatever. We’ll figure it out.” He gets up and starts walking back towards the main hall. “But right now I can’t fail math and have too many latenesses.”

“I can’t fail Science,” adds Frank. “Although…” 

He stops to poke his head through the now mostly open emergency exit as they’re walking past.

“Uncle Jerry!” Frank says fondly as he slips all the way through the door. The crisp outside air hits him with the smell of car exhaust and marijuana in a soft afternoon breeze. A broad man with thick grey hair wearing a flannel and aviator glasses turns to reveal a thinner dark skinned man with a goatee and braids. 

Frank nods in recognition, “Mr. Dogg.” Cigarette butts smush under his shoe as he takes a step towards them.

The guitarist hesitates at the tallest person in the small gathering of faculty. He can’t place a name to the pale face partially obscured by long straight hair. 

“Miss?...ter?” He longingly eyes the joint being passed between teachers as Ray leans in to whisper the name of the vocal instructor into his ear. 

“Manson!” He continues as if he’s known the man for years. “Spare a guy some poetic inspiration?” 

Marilyn laughs like a demon swallowing gravel. 

Snoop smiles as he exhales. “Best get that degree, son.” He passes the joint to Jerry Garcia.

Jerry Garcia glances at the other faculty present, shrugs, and passes the joint over Frank and to Ray. “Senior seniority. You understand.”

“AW, what the-

As soon as the paper leaves Ray’s lips Gerard swoops in for a drag and simultaneously pats Frank on the back fondly. The bell ring accentuates Frank’s frustration. Gerard nods his thanks and hands the weed back to Mr. Manson. Ray pulls them both back inside before they miss their chance at being on time to their next class.

“Man that was fucking bullshit,” Frank complains. “I can’t believe you assholes just-” Gerard cuts him off by cornering him between a janitor’s closet and a string of lockers. He bends down to blow smoke into the younger boy’s mouth. Wide eyed, Frank inhales as much as he can, straining to just barely brush his lips against Gerard’s. The singer pulls away with a smirk and Ray’s jaw slackens as he watches, breathe caught in his throat. 

“We should probably get to class.” Gerard says nonchalant and leads them forward.

Frank slaps a rhythm on Ray’s butt like a pair of bongos. “Jealous of the gay, Ray,” he teases. 

Ray stops to fart loudly in response. Frank laughs so hard he coughs out the smoke and Gerard pushes him into the janitor’s closet. Their peers rush toward the lockers beside them, hallway filling with students looking to kill time and grab their books. Frank reemerges with puffy eyes and a grin before all three of them cross the hall and bang open yet another doorway into a stairwell.

They squeeze past students on their way down and merge into a sea of kids going up. Traffic is slow. The flow stops periodically as students and teachers alike open doors to get to their respective floors.

“You know I actually just really like Composition,” reflects Ray.

“You and that studio shit,” Frank comments.

“Better him than me,” mumbles Gerard.

“I wish it was more studio shit honestly. It’s mostly traditional composition like songwriting which also kicks ass.” Ray flips them both off. He raises his voice as he leans back against a door to the third floor with all the music rooms. “That being said, Reznor’s a dick hole about lateness!” He drops his hands by his side as he slips out of view. “See you at lunch, Frankie.”

“Oh, I see,” yells Gerard. “Just into this ass huh?”

“Yeah and you better work it at gym, bitch.” Ray responds before the door slams closed.


End file.
